


when i reach for you

by shardmind



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bottom Dean Winchester, Canon Divergence-ish, Crossroads Demon Dean Winchester, Demon Sex, Human Castiel (Supernatural), I wrote this while listening to Rules - Doja Cat exclusively, M/M, Mentions of Castiel/Raphael, Openly Gay Castiel (Supernatural), Top Castiel (Supernatural), no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:08:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27684010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shardmind/pseuds/shardmind
Summary: “Finally! I thought it was gonna take you all night.” One step closer. Another. Until there’s less space than he’s comfortable with between them. Cas’s heart stutters a little and he realises that, for the first time in a long time, he’s genuinely terrified. “I’m a busy guy. Deals to make, souls to collect. You know how it is.”Cas works in investment banking. He does not, in fact, know how it is.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 42





	when i reach for you

**Author's Note:**

> thanks, as usual, to ari and isa for dragging me into the shitstorm that is spn & enabling to write literally every dumb idea that comes into my head (of which, this is one), to teesta for sprinting with me and, in turn, ensuring that half this fic even got written, and, above all else, thank you to you, reader, for giving this *gestures wildly at screen* your time.
> 
> no beta other than ari reading over it once when the ending was literally _'and then they have sex, cas tops, and a great time was had by all.'_

It had taken Cas some time to get the ingredients together; grave dirt, the bone of a black cat, and a photograph he didn’t despise. He’d located a crossroad, halfway between the city limits and the middle of nowhere, next to a rundown motel that’s website looked like something from an early 90’s movie and a lonely zero-star review citing simply ‘abysmal’. It had seemed a fitting spot, considering his plans.

Ever since Meg had brought it up, rifling through books on witchcraft, black magic and more with two empty bottles of merlot and a third steady on the way and the taste of salt permanently fused to his tongue from all the tears, he hadn't been able to get it off his mind. 

" _Hey,_ " she'd hummed, smug and languid from the wine. " _You don't need to get over someone if they never existed in the first place._ "

In hindsight, he should’ve responded with a laugh, a shrug and something along the lines of _‘Hard pass, let's just order Ben and Jerry's and handle this like normal people.”_.

Unfortunately, what he actually said was " _What's a crossroads demon?_ ".

Which is what landed him god knows where with a box full of questionable ingredients and no cell service. Because of course. This is how horror movies start. Any minute now some rotting corpse or redneck cannibal is going to jump out of the bushes and swing an axe for his throat. 

Honestly, death is preferable to the inevitable embarrassment of being stood at the intersection of two dirt roads, disappointed, with nothing to show for it other than the mud under his nails. 

His head says it’s not worth the effort but his heart still aches; it’s loss and grief and the absence of whatever he thought he— _they_ had, and it’s painful. It’s less than it was but it hurts nonetheless.

He sniffs. Tells himself it’s just allergies. 

Lies.

“This is ridiculous” Cas grumbles, wiping away a non-existent tear. He starts towards the centre of where the roads meet, kicking up dust as he does.

He’s not going to break down. He’s _not_. That can wait until he’s home alone, tucked into his own bed, with his own Netflix account and not out in the middle of nowhere, looking like a fool with a key for a single room at a shady motel whose clientele range from escorts to serial killers, probably. 

He’d not managed to procure a shovel or spade but Rowena’s hand trowel hangs heavy in his pocket, hitting his leg with every other step. He’ll thank her for it later, while simultaneously rubbing her nose in his failure. 

It feels kinda ridiculous, crouching in the middle of the road, wielding such a small thing with such obscure intent. If the cops pulled up, what then? How would he explain? _Sorry, officer. I’m a lovesick mess of a man just trying to summon a demon that apparently will give me anything I wish at the expense of my soul. Don’t worry! It shouldn’t leave a mess!_

Yeah, right. The trowel slices through the ground with more resistance than he was expecting.

Nothing’s ever easy, is it?

By the time there’s a hole big enough for the box, moonlight is the only thing that illuminates the place. The neon vacancy sign at the motel’s roadside had long since flickered out. It’s serene darkness and yet, Cas can’t bring himself to enjoy it. If he wanted to stare up at the sky all night, he would’ve gone to visit Jack, surrounded by snowdrifts as cold as he feels. Escaped his problems by simply leaving them behind.

Is it too late to do that? 

No, running away from something doesn’t fix it. It just makes coming back worse. 

He stands and, with probably a little less decorum than something like this demands, drops the box into the hole. 

Abandoning the trowel, he nudges the excavated dirt on top of the void of his own making, regretting that he’s still wearing his good shoes and hadn’t had the foresight to slip on sneakers or walking boots or something a little less conspicuous. 

To be honest, he hadn’t been thinking much when he left, too concerned with the fact that he’d had to buy the bones of a dead animal on Etsy, of all places. People are into taxidermy now, apparently.

When the last of the earth covers the box, leaving the road looking undisturbed, Cas lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. 

He’d been expecting some kind of sign to indicate... well, anything really, but there’s nothing.

Absolutely nothing. 

The night is still as silent as it was when he first got here — moon still bright, air still crisp — only now he has dirt caked to his slacks and the only thing he’s thinking of is the dry cleaning bill.

“Fuck.” He sighs, not entirely dissatisfied. At least he tried. At least now he gets to gloat to both Meg and Rowena that this kind of stuff just doesn’t exist. No matter how many times Meg assures him that it really _really_ does.

“Is that a request?”

Cas spins around as quick as his body allows him and almost forgets to stop himself. _Shit_. Usually, he makes a conscious effort to steer clear of cursing too much. Meg mocks him for it, Raphael used to— 

No. _Not now._

Regardless of his attempts to keep his language clean, the sight before him tears profanity right out of him.

“Holy fuck.” 

“Definitely not holy,” It— No. _He_ scoffs. It’s definitely a man. Or, it looks like one. God, does it look like one. “Jury’s still out on the fucking though.”

Cas can’t seem to find words. His brain short circuits somewhere just past the guy’s eyes. Moss green and searching, with enviable lashes. He’s pretty, in a handsome way, and he’s looking at Cas like he’s expecting him to have the answers when the only thing going through Cas’s brain is _what the fuuuuuuuuuuuck!_

The man looks him up and down, lingering over parts of Cas he hadn’t paid much attention to himself. His thighs, his chest, his mouth. Part of him wants to confront this stranger about it. It’s not nice being objectified like that, subject to what can only be described as a predatory gaze. 

There’s a much larger part of him, hidden deep down behind whatever it is that remains of his sanity, that wants to ask for his number. 

“ _Sooooo_ ,” He probes, taking a step closer. Cas is glad of what little distance there is between them because it helps at least keep some of his brain functioning. “You come here often?” 

Cas takes a step back, trying his best to remain fucking calm but this guy looks like something that walked straight out of a rock concert and into the middle of the street. Leather jacket, wash faded tee and thick combat boots. Despite the distance between them, he catches the cloying reek of gasoline, leather and sulfur in the air. “Who are you?”

“What, you need reminding?” The man scoffs and his voice melts like whiskey over gravel. How can it be so impossibly rough and smooth at the same time? Jeez, Cas constantly sounds hoarse no matter what he does to quell it. He’s never felt self-conscious about it before. Is this jealousy? “Come on, man. _You_ summoned _me_.”

Summoned.

Cas turns to look at where he’d buried the box but the ground was how he’d left it. Nothing had happened. Nothing had happened and yet…

“You’re—”

Eyes that had seemed so… _pretty_ earlier on, flash crimson. Sclera and all. Then he blinks and the horror is gone. The urge to scream catches in Cas’s throat. 

_Fuck_. The man — Cas isn’t going to refer to him as a demon, he’s _not_ — seems to visibly relax, at his panicked realisation.

“Finally! I thought it was gonna take you all night.” One step closer. Another. Until there’s less space than he’s comfortable with between them. Cas’s heart stutters a little and he realises that, for the first time in a long time, he’s genuinely terrified. “I’m a busy guy. Deals to make, souls to collect. You know how it is.” 

Cas works in investment banking. He does not, in fact, know how it is.

“Castiel, right?” The way the man’s voice wraps around his name—like it’s something to be savoured—awakens something primal inside him. Something that wants him to say it again. 

“How do you know my name?” Thankfully, his voice doesn’t portray the anxiety he feels. It sounds almost confrontational. Confident. Not that he’s fooling anyone here. This guy appeared out of thin air with a smirk and a devil may care attitude. Wait— does he know the Devil? Like, capital D?

“You gave me a signed photo.” He winks, plucking the thing from thin air. “Thank you, by the way. I’ll keep it forever.” 

The book said to include a picture. Cas had just thrown in a polaroid that Gabe had taken of him after one of his parties last summer. It had his name stamped across it in his brother’s blocky script. In all honesty, he’d included it because it’s the only picture he has of him smiling. Not that that should matter. Does it matter? “Was I not meant to?” 

The stranger shrugs, seemingly nonplussed. “I mean, I’ve had stick figures drawn on diner napkins before so it’s nice to have someone actually follow the ritual. Also, actual grave dirt? This a special occasion or something?” 

“I got it from a friend.” If you could consider Meg’s shady cousin-slash-arch-nemesis a friend, sure. How Crowley got his hands on grave dirt is anyone’s guess. Cas tried not to think too much into it at the time. He’s kinda forced to dwell on it now, though.

“Well, be sure to thank them for me.” Cas won’t. “Anyway, what can I do for you?”

In all honesty, he’s got no idea. His entire grip on reality shifted the moment this guy went all blood eyes on him, the concept of time splitting, categorising itself as Before and After. If this is real, what else is there? Ghosts? Vampires? Mothman? God? If Demons exist, is there a reason why? 

He rubs his temples, finding the telltale pressure of a tension headache building beneath his fingers to the incessant stream of _fuckfuckfuckfuck_ pulsing between his ears. Somewhere along the way, his brain to mouth filter falls just ceases to function and the question spilling from his mouth catches them both off guard.

“What’s your name?” 

“That’s what you want?” The man scoffs, one brow raised in confusion before shrugging it off. It does nothing to mask how attractive he is. “I’ve heard worse, dude. I mean, one guy asked me for a Nickleback reunion tour. Can you believe that? Anyway, there’s a lot of power in a name but consider this: is it really worth your soul?”

“Wha— that’s not my wish!” Panic seeps into Cas’s voice, just enough for him to lose the thin veil of confidence. He kicks himself for letting it. Even though, at this point, he’s not even sure what his wish would be anymore. 

Forget Raphael? 

Kill him? 

Demons are real. They’re real and there’s one right before his eyes, looking like something out of a fantasy. In comparison, the ache in his chest seems minimal. He takes a deep breath, letting the night’s chill ground him. “I just want to know what to call you.” 

In an instant, his face hardens to stone. Cas wants to apologise for asking, apologise for everything. God, why does he feel so out of depth? Why is he holding his breath? “No. No wishes. No freebies. This is a transaction. There’s a price tag.” 

Cas nods, unable to do anything else. His feet cemented to the ground as he waits for his fight or flight response to kick in. Not that it would help. There’s no way he’d be able to escape that calculating gaze long enough for him to turn tail and sprint to his car. 

Quickly as it came, the cold stare is gone, replaced by something much much darker, burning in its intensity. It could be considered, in some circles, as sleazy, which would be uncomfortable if he weren’t so attractive. Why is he so hot? Is that a prerequisite for demons? Are they all down in hell looking like ruggedly handsome runway models? 

“And anyway, why? You plan on calling me often, sweetheart?” He winks, eyes flicking to red again as if to emphasise something Cas isn’t entirely picking up on. Is he _flirting_?

“No, I— It’s polite.”

“Huh.” Confusion crosses the face of the nameless man-being-thing followed by a pause. He blinks, slowly, almost to himself and smiles. “I guess you can call me Dean. Dean Winchester.”

_Dean_. Ugh, even his name’s attractive. “You don’t sound too sure.” 

“I am. You just—” His — _Dean’s_ — eyes give him the once over, again. There’s a little furrow between his brow and it’s such a human expression. It’s… comforting? No, that’s not it. Cas wants to reach out and touch it, for some reason. Yeah, probably better not to dwell on that. 

“Usually it’s ‘ _Make me rich_ ’, ‘ _Make me famous_ ’. The normal stuff people will sell their soul for. I don’t think I’ve ever been asked my name before. You don’t seem like my usual bag.”

Cas doesn’t know what to say to that. Do demons have types? 

He clears his throat, wishing away the awkwardness that weasels its way into his system. “Well, Dean Winchester, I guess it’s nice to meet you.”

Unfortunately, Dean — _if that really is his name_ — is not convinced. His earlier confusion has gone and in its place is a smirk that makes Cas’s stomach drop.

“Really? Your heart’s racing.” He steps closer, one hand reaching out for Cas’s wrist and, like the fool he is, Cas lets him take it. Ringed fingers turn his palm up, two placed tightly over his veins. “Tell me, Castiel. Do I scare you?”

His feet feel less like they’re buried in the ground but the urge to run still escapes him. It takes a few moments just taking in the sight before him for Cas to realise that it’s not entirely fear that’s keeping him rooted.

Dean looks up at him through thick lashes, dark and hungry, waiting on his answer.

Fuck. Shit. _Fuck_.

Cas doesn’t have a lie lined up and his resolve to stay silent dissolves with each stroke of Dean’s fingers against his pulse point. 

He has nothing except the truth.

“Until you showed up, I thought I was going to bury that box and that the whole _crossroads demon offering me a deal to forget about my ex_ was a metaphor for me going into that motel, getting fucked up on vodka and passing out.” It tumbles from his mouth inelegantly and admitting it all fills him with burning embarrassment. His cheeks warm. If Dean notices, he doesn’t mention it. “So, yeah. A little.”

He hums, releasing Cas’s wrist with gentle consideration. It hangs there for a second as Cas weighs up his options in silence. Does he take it back? Does he need permission? He lets it fall to his side, trying not to focus on the way his skin prickles where Dean’s fingers were. It’s quite pleasant.

“A broken heart.” 

Castiel nods. “But it seems I have more pressing things to worry about.” 

“Hmm?”

“I summoned a demon.”

“Yes.” Dean waits for him to continue, still a little too close for comfort but Cas can’t find it in himself to feel threatened. Nothing about Dean reads as threatening, surprisingly. He’s looking up at Castiel like he’s something that warrants looking at. It’s… new.

“I might not have listened much in church but I’m pretty certain that kind of behaviour is universally damning.”

He chuckles, lips turned up in a smile that completely derails whatever thoughts had been running through Cas’s head, replacing them with things he shouldn’t be thinking, especially not about the demon he summoned with dirt and bone. “Depends. Do you think you deserve damnation?”

_Please_. Cas blinks away his answer, averting his eyes from where they'd been focused on the smattering of gentle freckles high on Dean's cheekbones. If he doesn't get out of there, he's not sure what'll happen. At this point, he's not averse to throwing away his soul just to know what Dean's throat tastes like.

God, this is _fucked up_.

“I think I need institutionalising at this point," He doesn't stutter, which is good. "So it’s best to not trust my judgement.”

“You still want to make a deal, right?" Dean takes Cas's forearm, not in coercion, but with something that looks awfully like concern in his eyes. It doesn't freak him out as much as it should when they flash to unfathomable crimson as Cas finally looks at him. "You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours?”

In all honesty, no. He doesn't. He wishes it hadn’t taken driving all the way out here, getting caked with dirt and actually meeting a fucking _crossroads demon_ for him to realise that. Cas pulls his arm away.

There is no reason why Dean should look like he cares, but he does.

“Why did you summon me?”

“I don’t know.”

Silence. Not the chirp of wildlife nor the distant buzz of civilisation dares disturb it. For a moment, he feels what it's like to be truly alone.

Dean huffs, scratching the faint shadow of stubble on his cheek.

“That’s a lie.” A statement, not a question.

Reluctantly, Cas nods.

“Why did you summon me, Castiel?” It's softer this time, deeper, and it sets something alight inside him that longs to feel that stubble against his skin.

Wait, _what_?

He clears his throat to dislodge the sudden lump there. “I needed help getting over someone.”

Dean hums in agreement, already aware of that part from Cas's earlier outburst. “And you wanted them gone.”

“No! No, not gone." The thought of this being just snapping his fingers and doing away with Raphael forever— it's not even tempting. It just feels wrong. He doesn't wish death for Raphael, he never had. He just— "I just wanted to forget.”

It hurts in the way bearing any secret does. Only, this time it's to a stranger—a demon, at that—and whatever comes from his confession comes at the price of his soul.

Dean reaches across to him, his fingers catching beneath Cas's chin and turning his head so their eyes meet. There's nothing but sincerity burning away behind the green.

“You still want that?”

Cas's gut clenches. It shouldn't, but it does.

“I— I don’t know.”

That's enough for Dean. He lets go of Castiel's face, leaving that same tingling warmth in his wake. Gone is the curiosity and concern, replaced with that same arrogant confidence from earlier. Cas misses it but, at the same time, he doesn't.

“That, my friend," Dean starts, pausing to pull out a silver flask from his pocket and take a sip. A drop of liquor catches on his bottom lip. Time slows for a second as his tongue darts out to collect it. Cas knows he's not being subtle as he watches but, quite frankly, he doesn't give a shit. "Sounds like a no. Call it demon intuition.”

It is a no, he’s right. He doesn't know what's changed— no, that's a lie, he knows exactly what's changed.

His heart _had_ ached. The breakup had left nothing but a shell of a man behind but his friends picked up the pieces, secured him back together with bandaids and liquor and support. It still stings to think about, memories wrapped in razor wire that the passing of time will work to unravel. So he doesn’t.

In reality, Castiel was already halfway to being over it by the time he buried that damn box. All he needed was a little, you know, kick for him to realise it. 

A kick like realising everything you knew about the supernatural is wrong and that, apparently, crossroads demons are impossibly attractive and also giant flirts, for example. Yeah, that'll do it.

Well, he's not too sure about the crossroads demon part, that could just be Dean. Maybe he lucked out.

“I made a mistake.” It doesn't hurt to admit but it kinda stings to see Dean sigh, visibly deflated.

“Everybody does.” Dean nods but doesn't push to change his mind. Cas appreciates that because, quite honestly, he’s not too sure his will is strong enough to stand up to Dean’s charms.

“But I do have some advice for you, man.” He continues, taking one look over his shoulder at the rundown motel across the way before turning back to Cas. His stomach drops at the sparkle he finds in Dean's eyes. “The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.”

Oh.

Cas can feel his eyes widen, his pulse race, breath catch—all of it. Any moment now he’s going to wake up, sweating and hard, the result of too many late nights and not enough action.

But he doesn’t.

Dean is there, one eyebrow raised in question and a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

If he had any sense, he'd walk away. Leave this place in the dust with his life and most of his dignity intact.

But he doesn't.

Where did all his anxiety go? All the fear, all the hurt. He can't find it but, then again, he doesn't really look, too focused on the opportunity presenting itself before him. The only thing screaming through Cas's head is want, so visceral and fierce, and the telltale signs of arousal licking their way from the pit in his stomach. Fuck.

A bead of sweat rolls down the length of his spine and Dean — as if he hadn't done enough already — winks.

Oh, he’s really fucked.

Cas probably should've asked for permission before diving in for a kiss as he does. Two steps forward and clutching at leather, tasting bourbon on Dean's lips—burn and salt and a spike of something else. A hand grips at the back of his neck, while another winds around his waist, holding him close and Cas can't imagine ever saying no to this. He's never kissed like this. He's never been kissed like this.

Dean doesn't push to take more than he's given which is, quite frankly, unexpected. It's not discouraging, though. He lets Cas control how far it goes, how fast they advance, and Cas can't help but be surprised at the moan he catches with his mouth when he lets his tongue into the mix. It's frightening how easily he could get used to this and yet he can't bring himself to stop. He doesn't want to stop.

Castiel Novak, 31, is making out with a demon and he can't find it in himself to find a problem with that.

They break for air eventually. Reluctantly.

"Well—" The shaky breath Dean lets out does not help matters. Or maybe it does. It shoots straight through him, only adding to the fire in his gut. He did that. To a demon. He did that to a demon. Dean is still smirking, clearly quite pleased with himself. 

Cas wants to fuck it off… if Dean will let him, that is.

Well, there's a thought he can't take back.

He smooths out where his fingernails bit into the leather of Dean's jacket, unable to completely hide the fact that he's thinking about his mouth wrapped around— Oh, he's really going to hell.

"That's a yes, by the way." He says, deadly serious and Dean rolls his eyes.

"Thank fuck for that."

Cas doesn't even get the chance to react because one second they're in the middle of the street, spit slick lips and wandering hands, the next they're in his motel room.

It’s not even the second craziest thing that’s happened that evening but Cas can’t help but double-take. They were— and now they’re—

Dean answers his non-question with a shrug. "Perks of the job."

Demon perks. Right.

Fortunately, the 70's decor, shag carpet and sudden, inexplicable change of scenery do nothing to wane just how much he wants this.

Dean doesn't fuck about, closing in on him with another kiss. It's rushed and heavy and he's drunk on it, slipping his hands beneath the leather casing Dean's arms and forcing it off. It falls to the floor, forgotten.

It's easy enough to remove his own overcoat and jacket without wandering hands getting in the way. He shrugs them off while Dean laughs against his lips, fingers working to simultaneously unbutton and untuck his shirt. Cas pushes his hands away, taking a step back so he can reach to pull it off himself; buttons intact, tie loosened but not undone.

In the time it takes him to throw the heap of white at the floor, Dean is tugging off his own shirt and, not to sound cliche but what the fuck? Averting his eyes is not an option.

"You still okay with this?" Dean starts, stepping back into his space. He's still smirking but there's that same air of concern to his look. Cas hadn't realised how cold it had become without him close until he’s back and the warmth rolls off him in waves. 

"I am,” Cas nods and, really, it's the truth. Dean looks up at him, eyes flashing to red. A reminder. A promise. Cas tries his best to not react, ignoring the spark of trepidation it sends down his spine. The risk is worth the reward. “Are you?"

The looks he gets in response as he shoves Dean backwards is priceless. The solid single knocks the air right out of him and Cas zeroes in on the breathless laugh he gets as an answer. Those just aren't the sounds you’d expect demons to make. Then again, his knowledge of demonology is limited to Rowena’s library and this sole encounter so… maybe, he’s in for more where that came from. _God, I hope so_.

He’s caught off guard when Dean hooks a leg around the back of his knees, tugs, and then he’s falling. His knees take the most of it, landing on the edge of the mattress with his arms either side of Dean’s head. He still has some advantage, not that it matters.

Doubt melts away with the feel of arms pulling him in, the flick of tongues deepening greedy kisses, warm breath and soft curses. Confidence simmers under his skin like lightning as his fingers skim down Dean’s chest, across planes of taught muscle that shiver beneath his touch. This is power. It’s euphoric and heady and it’s his. For now. 

He makes quick work of the zippers that separate them, revelling in the growl he gets from Dean as he brushes over the coarse hair that peeks from beneath the waistband of his boxers. Part of him feels like he’s rushing things, that he should take time learning the taste of Dean’s skin with his tongue, but that part — small as it is — drowns beneath the fire in his gut. When is he ever gonna get an opportunity like this again? 

“Hurry up.” Dean bites, teeth grazing Cas’s bottom lip in the process. Sharp, but not sharp enough. The thought of him, impatient and wanting, pushes so many buttons Cas didn’t even know he had.

“Make me.”

Dean glares at him, burning jade in the low light. A wicked smile crosses his face — he can feel how it teases at his lips — and, simple as anything, Dean pulls away. 

“Okay.”

And then Cas is on his back. 

_Wow_. 

“You were taking too long.” He doesn’t even try to hide the smug smirk from where he’s straddling Cas’s thighs and, honestly, thank fuck for that. It’s a sight he’ll be calling back on for months to come—Dean sat atop his lap, working to rid them of the rest of their clothes. The heat of him radiates. 

Cas lets his hands settle at Dean’s hips, thumbs rubbing circles into the prominent juts there, tightly coiled muscle jostling whenever he shifts his weight to shuffle out of his jeans. Laying back and just taking in the show, it occurs to him how much strength Dean really holds.

He could kill him in a heartbeat. Tear him apart without breaking a sweat. 

Cas would probably let him. 

How many lives has he claimed as his own? How many souls fell because Dean Winchester answered their prayer? 

He doesn’t want to find out. 

Cas shudders as Dean’s hands graze his thighs, pushing along the rough wool of his slacks. The cool air against his cock in contrast with the warmth of Dean’s proximity has him harder than he ever thought he could be in a decrepit motel at the edge of state lines but it doesn’t stop him wanting. Doesn’t stop him thanking whatever was going through his wine-addled brain that had him agreeing to come out here, mess with dark forces on the off chance that he might succeed. Doesn’t stop him gripping Dean’s hips and rolling them so he’s flat on the bed, legs hiked around Cas’s waist. 

For a second, Dean looks surprised, cheeks coloured pink, those beautiful freckles disappearing against the blush. Fuck. Through violence or passion, Dean Winchester will be the death of him.

“You were taking too long.” Cas shrugs, aiming for nonchalance and missing. He takes a second to just appreciate the view; Dean on his back, laid out for him, cock thick and curved ever so slightly as the tip rests against his stomach. He looks nothing short of breathtaking. Just being able to witness this, to experience this, feels like a blessing. A gift.

Suddenly, damnation doesn’t seem so bad.

Dean looks up at him from beneath thick lashes and Cas wants nothing more than to kiss him right now. That is, until Dean opens his mouth to speak. “Do you wanna fuck me?”

Oh God.

“Desperately.” Is all he can manage without stuttering, or drooling, or worse. Dean smirks at that, eyes drawn to where they’re both on display. He licks his lips and Cas struggles to suppress a groan. He hadn’t even thought to prepare for this — Sex. With a demon. Now — and racks his brain to think if he’d thrown out the condom in his wallet or not. “I don’t— Shit. Do you have—”

The thought of having to pull on his clothes and drive out to find provisions feels humiliating. _Note to self: buy condoms. Just in case._

“Lucky for you, I always show up prepared.” Dean sighs, reaching over the edge of the bed to retrieve his jeans. He, like magic, produces a single foil wrapper and two sachets of Astroglide from the pockets and Cas has never been more relieved to see lube in his life. It takes a second for disappointment to set in. Dean catches it before Cas can let poison seep in, reaching out to stroke the scruff along Cas’s jaw. “Don’t pout. This isn’t a regular occurrence for me. Just like to be prepared.” 

It calms him down more than it probably should.

“And I was an angel in a past life.” Cas scoffs, placing the items on the mattress but keeping hold of one sachet to warm between his palms. “Is it okay for me—?”

“Go ahead. Shouldn’t take much.” Dean nods, resuming his position, propped up on his elbows. Heat flares in his belly as the realisation sets in. He wants to watch. 

If there’s anything that isn’t perfect about this man, Cas has yet to find it.

Demon. About this demon. Yeah.

Cas goes to work. The hiss Dean lets out as the lube drips against his skin tapers off into a sigh as Cas’s fingers gently massage it into his rim. Gentle. So gentle. As if Dean might disappear if he were to push too hard.

“Also, Angels?” He breathes, caught between a breath and a whine. His legs spread wider. Easier access. “Not as unbelievable as you think.”

Cas works efficiently, working in more and more of lube with finesse he didn’t think he’d be able to muster with the scene going on before him. Each grunt of encouragement from Dean as he works in deeper drags him closer to the edge. Dean was right, it’s barely a couple of minutes before he’s working in a second finger, a few more and he’s slipping in a third.

“Angels?” He says it on a downstroke and Dean gasps a little as the stretch overwhelms him. If he could, he’d spend hours, days, drawing those noises from Dean’s throat. Raw. Unfiltered. Each one goes straight to his cock. 

“Yeah, but we can do a crash course on that later when your fingers aren’t up my ah— _fuck_!”

There it is.

Cas presses further, curling his fingertips and Dean loses it. Long, drawn-out _fuuuuuck!_ falling from his lips. His dick, untouched, flushed red against his stomach, lurches in response — a string of precome attaching itself to Dean’s navel.

“Please,” He moans, one palm shooting out to grip Cas’s shoulder. He could’ve crushed it beneath those calloused fingers, turned his bones to dust. He could. But he doesn’t. Instead, he begs. _He begs._ “I’m ready, Castiel! Please, just fuck me.”

“It’s Cas.” He withdraws his fingers, watching with thinly veiled fascination as Dean clenches around nothing. 

_Fuck_.

It’s like he’s on autopilot, tearing into the foil condom wrapper with his teeth and rolling it over himself in a matter of seconds. Dean hooks one leg around Cas’s thighs and throws the other over his shoulder and before his brain can catch up with what his body’s doing, Cas is sliding in, inch by slow, thick, inch and the vice grip of Dean’s hands in the sheets below has him bitting back praise.

It seems pretty rude calling out for god when you’re balls deep in one of Hell’s finest.

It takes a second for him to catch his breath once he’s fully seated, wrapped in such an all-encompassing heat that it’s almost too much. His fingertips grip at Dean’s flesh, promising bruises in their wake. A trail of breadcrumbs to find his way back.

“Dammit Cas, _Move!_ ” Dean grunts, trying his hardest to angle his hips, rock him deeper, but the positioning is off and Cas wants to laugh, make a joke about having all the control, but he can’t think about anything other than how fucking tight Dean is, how desperate he is and how Cas can’t help but follow his lead. 

So, he does. 

It’s impossible to start slow, no matter how hard he tries — he wants to ease into it, make it last, draw out his impending release until he’s wrung out and spent and Dean’s oversensitive and ready to explode — but Dean squeezes around him and he’s lost, working to chase a high he hasn’t felt in so long.

Each push and pull sends him further from lucidity, deeper into the frenzy that threatens to overtake him, frying his nerves until the whole of him burns with need. It’s animalistic and each moan he coaxes from Dean, each roll of his hips that punctuates with a gasp or a whine, only fuels the furnace inside him. He’s never felt like this. It’s intoxicating. 

Dean reaches down between them, touching himself in hurried strokes as Cas rails him. Their pace quickens, building faster and rougher and more and more until his grunts and whines turn to gasps, breathless like he can’t quite seem to catch himself. He’s beautiful — mistakenly angelic — and Cas doesn’t know what urges him to do it, but he leans forward to steal a kiss. It’s dirty and rushed. There’s not enough leverage for him to fully control it but enough to drive him just that little bit further, to have Dean screaming out “ _Fuck!_ ” against his lips as he falls, pulling himself off with slick strokes.

His rhythm is stilted and harsh but it’s enough, riding the coattails of Dean’s orgasm, he finds his own — pressure building and building until he’s on the precipice, still fighting to pull through, make it last just a little bit longer, just a little more to savour but Dean catches his eyes, thoroughly fucked out and glistening with the sheen of sweat, pupils blown impossibly wide and then it happens.

Dean’s eyes flash to red and Cas, unable to hold himself back from the edge, stutters out a few weak thrusts as he comes.

As expected, his arms give out and he falls on top of Dean. Too exhausted to care, their hearts race in an echo of each other. 

That was—

“Damn.” 

“I could say the same thing.” Cas breathes, catching the shell of Dean’s ear with his lip. Dean shudders, winces. “You okay?”

“Yeah, hold on, can we just—” He pushes lightly on Cas’s chest, rolling him to the side. Dean winces again as his cock pulls free, severing their tether. He stretches out the leg that had been more or less pinned to his chest, wrapped over Cas’s shoulder. “I don’t wanna cramp up, dude.” 

“Oh yeah, sure.” 

He takes a few minutes just to stretch out and, now their tryst is over, it feels invasive to watch as Dean catalogues his aches and pains. Cas flicks off the prophylactic in the trash, purposefully turning his back to the demon as he cleans himself off with a handful of tissues from the desk. He should probably shower but the call to sleep is much stronger. 

When he turns back around, Dean is sat on the edge of the bed, looking rather intently at the gaudy wallpaper of the motel room. There’s the pink flush of a budding bruise blossoming in five distinct points on his thigh. Cas can’t help the pride that swells in his chest for leaving them there. It’s not nice, he doesn’t own any part of Dean and Dean, in return, owes him nothing. 

Dean, of course, catches him watching. There’s a stubborn set to his jaw, defiance in its rawest form, but his eyes are softer, bright and swimming with endorphins. 

“You mind if I uh— can I stick around?” He starts, the cocksure attitude from earlier completely lost. He doesn’t fall over his words, but the insecurity is there, veiled behind a smirk. “You did a mighty fine job of wearing me out and I still got work to do so… should be like, an hour or two tops. Just to… uh… recover. Yeah. Technically, I don’t need to sleep but, you know, I shouldn’t go back empty-handed looking like I just got banged like a screen door in a hurricane. My boss will have my guts if he finds out and I’m pretty sure Alastair is made of dicks at this point—” 

“Dean.”

“Yeah?”

Cas can’t help it. Can’t resist. He steps into Dean’s space, shame at his nakedness nowhere to be found. Dean looks up at him with the same reverence he had earlier, back in the street when it had just been them and moon as their witness. Cas kisses him again; softer, sweeter.

“Shut up.” 

When he awakes, it’s to an empty bed and a text from an unknown number.

_**this prob the best way 2 get my attention. well… 2nd best ;) DW** _

**Author's Note:**

> so... that finale, huh?
> 
> catch me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/shardminds)!


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